The Gallery
by Mary West
Summary: Hermione is in Australia, attending a gallery function, when she hears a familiar voice - but it can't be! He's dead! From two leftover prompts from the SSHG Promptfest Summer 2014. As always, the amazing JKR made us a sandpit, and has allowed us to play in it. I get nothing from this but teasing from my husband, and satisfaction for myself. (Bonus points if you can find the error)


"Bored."

Hermione sipped her drink again, and looked around the gallery. She could have sworn she heard a vaguely familiar voice just say _bored_, but no-one in the crowd seemed even slightly recognisable. Oh, there was that shock jock, standing in front of his portrait and claiming it showed his intelligence – she recognised his ugly mug from the advertising posters that clogged up the hoardings in the city – and that society bitchqueen whose idea of fame was to wear as little as possible and then lose it in the slightest gust of wind. Both of their faces rang slight bells in Hermione's mind, but not their voices. And not like _that_. Not in a way that made her bones shiver and her soul freeze for a fraction of a second.

Once more, Hermione cursed the impulse that had made her offer to take her parents' place at this celebrity fundraising function. She had been staying with them in Elizabeth Bay for the last month, reconnecting and learning to cope with each other as adults. It hadn't been easy, but the last barrier had gone down when Hermione told them about her difficulties back in the UK.

_"It's not easy being me over there. I'm someone famous. A personality. And if I don't match what the newspapers and Wizarding Television have set me up to be, then the hatred is almost palpable." Hermione twisted her fingers together, only just holding back the tears. "And then when Ron and I split … it was really quite civilised. We realised that we didn't belong together, and were quite happy to call it quits, but the newspapers started to call me a heartbreaking harpy and worse…" At that, she broke down, and Wendell Wilkins looked at his wife._

_"Hermione? We understand." Monica Wilkins left the sofa where she had been sitting with her husband, and came and wrapped her arms around Hermione. "We were in the spotlight ourselves a few years ago. Decided to be in one of those cooking competition shows, where you make a dish for a pair of incredibly picky ponced up gits, and we were doing really well until the last semi-final." Monica sighed with such sorrow that Hermione gulped back her sobs, wiped her eyes and looked at her mother._

_"What…?"_

_Wendell smiled sadly at his wife. "We didn't think we should use so much sugar as they were telling us to. Teeth and all, you know. And we said as much at the judging. The judges were quite nice about it, even though they did fail us, but then the hatemail started." _

_"You'd think we'd used fresh baby hearts or something." Monica's grin, a not-very-nice one, reminded Hermione where she'd got that expression from. "We were known as the Sour Sydney Spoilsports for a couple of years, and it wasn't much fun._

_"What we're trying to say is – stay here, if it's what you need."_

Glancing around one more time, yet trying not to look too obvious, Hermione scanned the crowd to try and work out who the speaker was. One side of the room was quite densely packed, and it was as she looked over at those guests that the voice rang out again, this time sounding more annoyed than ever.

"I can't believe I've wasted an entire evening looking at this drivel."

Once more a shiver ran down her spine. That voice had the ability to make her blood run cold, send her into sweats of terror, and yet raise the most incredible, hopeful grin on her face. It couldn't be, of course. He'd died. In the Shrieking Shack. But somewhere in that crowd was someone with the voice of Severus Snape.

And then the crowd shifted, moved, split apart into two groups that flowed away from each other like the sides of the Red Sea, revealing at the back of the gallery a hooked nose and dark eyes that looked straight into hers, with a mirrored gaze of mixed terror and pleasure.

It was all Hermione could do not to fling herself across the open space and wrap her arms around him in joy. She managed (she still doesn't know how) to find a space to put her glass, (it was on the side of the society queen's sculpture entry in the art show, but a well-trained waiter removed it before anyone else noticed), and crossed the floor as quickly and yet as discreetly as she could. He stood there, not inviting and yet not turning away, until she stood so close that she had to tilt her head back to see his face, despite her high heels.

"Miss Granger."

"Professor."

"Not any longer." Although dressed in a dark suit, he was not in academic clothing nor yet his usual robes. A silk grey shirt showed under the jacket, both open slightly. Severus's hair was pulled back into a queue, and his previously sallow skin now sported a little more colour, an almost inevitable side-effect of living in Australia. "What in the name of Merlin's hairy and pendulous are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same question." Hermione bristled a little, but refused to lose the joy she felt at having found him. "We thought you dead, and then the shack burned down after the battle and we assumed your body was destroyed. But you didn't… you weren't…" She felt herself becoming shrill, and stopped to take a deep breath. "I'm here in place of my parents – they're sponsors of the gallery and get invited to all the openings."

"I don't remember any 'Granger' on the invitation list."

"That would be because they're 'Wilkins' now. My efforts to keep them safe during the War."

"Of course. Very clever of you – but then you always were a clever minx." His smile was almost approving, and when a well-dressed younger man came up and slipped an arm around his waist, Hermione could see Severus relaxing further. She looked at the new arrival, then looked again.

The word "twink" had surely been invented for this man. He sported short hair with bleached tips, skin so smooth it could only have the most subtle of foundation on it, and a small but elegant earring. His clothing was beautifully cut, and the lily on the chain around his neck was tasteful rather than outrageous.

"Darling, who is this enchanting creature you're talking to?"

Severus had put his own arm around the young man's waist, and Hermione was struck with how comfortable they were together. She smiled at the newcomer, puzzled, not entirely sure…

"Andrew, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine, one of my former pupils. Miss Granger, would you allow me to introduce my partner, Andrew Madrone? Andrew is a fashion designer." Severus's pride showed through, and Hermione gulped once, then took a deep breath and shook Andrew's hand.

"You should call me Hermione, and so should Severus. I had no idea. I hadn't … how long have you two been together? And why didn't you tell us, Severus?"

"Severus found me, Hermione. He was teaching at the Design College while I was a student, and something just … clicked. We became close, and then one night he saved my life. We moved in together the next week." Andrew's look at Severus was so full of love and appreciation that Hermione actually felt as if she were intruding.

"It wasn't quite as drastic as that," Severus demurred, but then Andrew leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

"I need to mingle, and then I'm going dancing after this. I'll see you later."

"Later." Severus stroked the younger man's cheek, and watched fondly as Andrew headed out to work the crowd. Hermione watched the whole exchange, and finally took a drink from a tray that was being offered. The sip of cold mineral water helped her concentrate, and she was able to gather a few thoughts from the hundred or so questions that were racing around her head. Severus was almost smirking as he watched her, then he took pity on her and crooked an elbow at her.

"Would you care to walk, Hermione? Perhaps I could clear up some things for you."

Barely knowing what she was doing, Hermione slipped her arm through his, and they started wandering away from the crowds and through the gallery. The noise slowly subsided and Hermione felt more able to control her confusion.

"You always were the know-it-all."

"Sometimes, Severus, I've come to realise that I don't. Nowhere near. And now, particularly, I realise I know nothing. Were you… did you… when…?"

Severus laughed out loud, the sound the most carefree she had ever heard him. "I should, perhaps start when you think I died."

"But you didn't."

"No, but only because House Elves are the most stubborn types you ever saw. I'd been helping treat Winky for her butterbeer addiction, so she felt it incumbent upon herself to save me. Spirited me away to a secret ward at St Mungos, where I spent the best part of six months trying to live.

"And then I couldn't stand Britain any more. The stupid class consciousness. The reception I would have received if I had gone back into Wizarding society. And most of all, the inability to be anything but either totally hated or totally worshipped. I couldn't cope with it."

"So you came to Sydney."

"I had a relative here. A great aunt who had emigrated back in the fifties. She had a little terrace at the back of Kings Cross, and I moved in, looked after her in her last months in exchange for room and board. Then it turned out she really had no other relatives, so she left the place to me. And I found a new life."

"As a teacher?"

"In a Design College. I teach photography, and non-traditional sculpture. That's one of mine." They stopped at the corner of the corridor, in front of a large black and white photograph of an old woman sitting on her front porch, surrounded by people dressed as cats. "I can't say that I really know what it means, but others see something in it. And who am I to disagree?"

"Is that your great-aunt?"

"Yes. Cassiopeia Caldwell."

"Named for the beautiful queen." Hermione was grateful not to appear a total dunderhead, and was now feeling more relaxed. The walk had helped, as had Severus's calm voice. "How long have you been here? In Sydney, I mean."

"Nearly eight years." Severus led her further along the corridor and around the next corner.

"And Andrew?"

"Andrew. Yes." Severus smiled in remembrance. "You have to remember, Hermione, that it's a Design College in the Bohemian end of Sydney. There are students of every persuasion and permutation of gender. But there are also bogans and wankers." Hermione started, and stared at him, and he laughed. "I believe the British term is Ned or Chav. Or similar. But generally, assume someone of a lower socio-economic status, who has certain prejudices concerning people who are different. In any way."

He fell silent for a minute, then shuddered.

"I found a bunch of four of them beating Andrew up at the back of the College one day."

"Because?"

"Because he's gay, and obviously looks like he is. Because they were bored. Because he wasn't thinking when he went out the side door. Although of course that doesn't excuse them. And because they're afraid of anything different."

They turned another corner. The noise of the party had completely disappeared by now, and Hermione found the silence soothing.

"And you stopped them? With magic?"

"No. Just by telling them to stop. And holding up my phone as I was calling the police. Sometimes that's all it takes, although I was also careful to be up a flight of fire-escape stairs while I did. But it turned out Andrew had been thrown out of home by his father, and had been sleeping in the shed at the back of the school. We'd become friends, but when he came out of hospital, I asked him if he'd like to move in with me. And that was five years ago."

"Five years." Five years before, Hermione had been trying to fit in at the Ministry, trying to avoid the reporters, and trying to save the last shreds of her relationship with Ron. "I'm guessing that you just came with him tonight to keep him company."

"And because I always get invited to these things." Severus was walking slower now as they turned the next corner, and the lights in the gallery were getting dimmer. "I write articles for the _Herald_ sometimes, and of course I'm an artist in my own right. But Andrew has amazing talent. He's created clothing that even makes _me_ look good."

"He's done it with love." Hermione smiled as she said this, because she knew it was true. Every seam on the suit, the sheen of the fine silk shirt, and the whole package, had been put together with love. No wonder Severus looked so happy.

"Maybe he has."

"He loves you very much, I can tell. And he's special to you, too." Now she was saying it more to get the idea through her own head, accepting it at the same time.

"Looking after Andrew gave me back a purpose I had lost, Hermione. He is a wonderful man." But Severus sounded hesitant, and Hermione stopped and looked at him.

"Is something wrong?"

Then she realised. All the noises of the party were gone. There was nothing, even though they had walked almost the entire distance around the gallery. "Have they packed up and left us? Locked us in?"

"Not quite." Severus looked back up the corridor they had just walked down, then ahead and to the next corner. "We should be standing in the main reception hall now. And yet we're still in a corridor."

"And isn't that the picture of your great-aunt?" Hermione pointed to the first painting on the next wall around.

Severus slipped Hermione's arm out from where it had been comfortably tucked into his, and now encircled her in his arms as he scanned all around them.

"Something is not right. Hermione, do you have your wand?"

"No – I deliberately left it at home. You?"

"Haven't used one for eight years. Not since the Dark Lord took mine. But this is definitely magic."

"Dark magic?"

"I don't know. Magic here can be … problematic."

"Dangerous?" Hermione was quietly casting some wordless, wandless charms – mainly warning and warding spells, but still better than nothing.

"Complicated. You've got 60,000 years or more of the local Gadigal people with their magic – and never underestimate that, Hermione. It has strong roots, and colours everything else that's here. Then you've got the odd British and Irish wizards that came here over two hundred years ago, a pile of other European and Asian influences in their bits and pieces, plus a small contingent of Death Eaters who escaped after the War and set up shop down here. So anything that tries to do magic here – the final result may not be what they expected."

"And which do you think this is?"

"I don't know. It's … I can't feel enough about it yet. Can you? "

Hermione stopped, and tried to concentrate, to hear…

"No, not like that."

She jumped, and realised that the light was almost gone. "How, then?" she snapped.

"You need to stop trying, and just feel." His voice was right beside her ear, so quiet. "We need to know the … the flavour. The type. So you need to just relax, clear your mind, feel the magic as it starts to wash through you…" His breath warmed her ear, and she leaned into his body, seeking comfort. Forget that he was attached, forget that she was scared, just … breathe…

They stood there for five minutes, ten, their breathing patterns slowly synchronising, as the last of the light disappeared from the gallery and they were left in a black silky darkness that smelled of oil paints and perfume and then of …

"Why am I thinking of Crookshanks, Severus? He's been gone for years now."

"Valerian. Cats are attracted to it. And can you smell the other one?"

"Wormwood. The Draught of…"

"Yes. But why?"

Hermione held tighter to Severus, scared to let go in case he disappeared again. Her mind, starting to get too tired to think clearly, conjured up images of happy cats and sad cats, cats in boxes and cats in songs, and a pile of cats around a little old lady…

"Severus – what was your grandmother's middle name?"

She felt him start, then laugh. "Oh, Auntie, what have you done? It's Artemisia. Named for the painter, but that's also the name for ..."

"Wormwood. Oh dear. You don't suppose she wants us to … die, do you?" Hermione almost started crying, for the loss of all the time she had left, and the things she wanted to do know that she knew her parents again, and …

"Hermione?" Severus started stroking her hair. "She wouldn't do that to us. She wasn't that sort of person. Although I'm starting to think she might not have been wholly Muggle as well. No, Auntie Cass was the sort of person who wanted people to live their lives to the fullest. The way she did."

"Then why has she stuck us here?" Her legs were far too tired, with the walking and the standing in heels that were really a touch too high. Hermione allowed herself to unwind from Severus, and leaned on him instead so that she could remove the shoes, but the balance in the dark was problematic, and she found herself sliding down to the ground instead. Once there, she felt herself start to shake, threatening to weep, and tried to pull herself together. Severus sat down beside her, and stretched out his legs, then pulled her back with him until their backs were against the wall.

"More comfortable like that." He sighed, and wrapped an arm around Hermione. She said nothing, terrified of letting slip how scared she was. It was all very well being brave and hanging on for everyone else, but she didn't have a lot of strength left for herself, and this was taking the little that there was.

"And I have no idea, Hermione." He held her tightly, trying to give her as much strength as he needed himself, and she leaned into him. He stroked her hair, and she found herself drifting off, feeling herself falling in the dark…

… until she was facing the woman in the photograph. Auntie Cass was sitting in the same chair, but the people dressed as cats were nowhere to be seen. It was as if there was a fog everywhere, and the only things that existed were the old wicker chair, a few feet of verandah, and the old lady.

She smiled, and beckoned to Hermione.

"Me?"

The old woman nodded, and Hermione came closer. Auntie Cass held out her hand, and Hermione took it, surprised at the warmth in the frail fingers. Somehow she had expected cool hands, rough and dry, and instead they were soft and pliant, as if from a younger person.

Hermione took her courage in her (metaphorical) hands, and decided to try and sort this out. "Why, Auntie Cass? Why have you put us here?"

The woman said nothing, but pulled Hermione closer. Then she placed one hand on Hermione's head, wiping across the forehead. The other hand she placed on Hermione's front, and Hermione gasped to see the long fingers reach into her chest.

Next moment, with no pain, no blood, Auntie Cass was holding Hermione's brain and heart in front of her. Hermione was watching, terrified, yet fascinated, as the older woman shook the brain. Large quantities of sawdust fell out onto the floor, where they blew gently away in a non-existent draught. The heart seemed covered in frost, locked in a small block of ice, and Auntie Cass put the brain down and wrapped both hands over the heart and held it. Steam rose, and when she opened her hands, Hermione's heart lay there soft and alive, beating slowly. Auntie put the heart down, clasped her hands together and made a cupping motion. When she opened them, there was a lens made from the ice, clear as glass, lying on Auntie Cass's palm.

The old woman gestured at the three in order – brain, heart and lens, and Hermione struggled to comprehend. "You want me to … you think my brain is stuffed?"

Auntie just laughed, silently, then pointed at the heart.

"You want me to eat more meat?"

At that, Auntie buried her face in her hands in the universal gesture of frustration, then handed Hermione the lens.

"You want me to look through this…" Hermione did so, trying to see through the mist, then she turned back to the old woman – except that the verandah was gone, as were the brain and the heart, and the mist came in to wrap around Hermione and soak through her.

She shook herself to clear the mist, only to see pitch dark and feel arms around her.

"What?"

"Hermione? You were asleep." Severus was still holding her, and she realised.

"Your aunt. I saw her."

"Dreamed her?"

"Perhaps." Hermione rubbed her hands over her eyes, surprised not to feel an ice lens in them. "And she … she was trying to tell me something."

"Tell me. Perhaps we can work it out together." Severus's voice was soft, gentle and Hermione didn't feel so strange telling him. That, and not seeing his face helped. She would have been mortified to tell him while he was actually watching her.

"Do you think there's a message?" Hermione finished the story, and shifted her position. The floor of the gallery was not made for long-term sitting on, and her bum was getting numb.

"Undoubtedly . And even you should be able to work out the first one." Severus's voice was mocking, but only gently so. "Did the sawdust remind you of anything?"

"No… yes!" Hermione almost bounced with excitement, even in her tiredness. "My father had some things delivered, and the packing peanuts were just like the sawdust. Poured out everywhere, but we had to remove them to … ohhhh"

"To what, Hermione?"

"To make the machine work. I think that's the message." Hermione hugged Severus, then sat back against him. "My brain has been protecting itself, but now it's time to lose … the …. Oh Severus, I don't think I can." And at that, all the barriers Hermione had put up, all the defences against the pain and sorrow and hurt of the last eight years came pouring out, and she couldn't hold on any longer. She started sobbing out a mixture of fear and worry, the aftermath of the sorrows of loss from the War and beyond, the emotional turmoil of hunting for her parents, and then the huge impact of finding them again.

And most of all, she sobbed for fear of never loving again, of never finding someone who understood her, and talked with her, not at her, and who could cope with and keep up with her, and even challenge her. Worst of all, she realised that, sitting right here with her, wrapping his arms around her and gently stroking her head, was a man who would have been utterly perfect for her, were he not taken already.

The idea moved within her, and she came to the second realisation. "I know what the heart means."

"Tell me." Severus sounded sad, but did not stop stroking her head.

"I need to let my heart do what it does best. Stop trying to freeze it so it can't move on." 'Tears were rolling down her face now, but the sobbing had ceased. "I need to let it love where it will, and not be afraid. And I need…" Nope, that was the trigger – she couldn't say anything more without sobbing.

"You need to let it live, and let yourself live at the same time. Hermione, you'll never find your heart's desire and your true mate without taking the risks. You'll get hurt, yes, but the joy will be worth it."

"Will it?" A little bitterness crept in. Hermione tried to stop it, but it wouldn't go away. "How did you know?"

"How did I know what?"

"How did you know", Hermione pushed, "that Andrew was the one and that you truly loved him?"

Severus jumped, then started laughing. "My what? Did you think…"

The idea was startling enough that Hermione sat up, still unable to see Severus's face in the dark. "Are you telling me … you told me that Andrew is your partner."

"He is – my _business_ partner! I invested in his ideas for fashion, and I do admin work for him from time to time." Severus was laughing hard, now, barely able to keep upright.

"But … he loves you so much. And you love him. You kissed him!" Hermione's voice was shaking now more from anger than anything else.

"I love him as a friend, and he knows that. We're just wonderfully comfortable around each other." Severus's voice grew more sombre for a moment. "And I know he loves me. I know he's _in love_ with me. It's … I've certainly explored my sexuality, Hermione. Never doubt that. But I'm not attracted to him that way. And he's content to go on like this for the time being."

Hermione drew a deep breath. She needed to know more, to see clearly what the situation was before she went on. "So, do you … are you in love with _anyone_ at the moment?"

He said nothing, just took her head gently in his hands and kissed her, softly, warmly, as if he was kissing the most valuable thing in the world. She kissed him back, feeling more and more as if she belonged nowhere else but in his arms, as they forgot the situation, forgot the enchantment, forgot the rest of the world and lost themselves in each other.

A light cough stopped their exploration, and they both opened their eyes and looked around. The night lights of the gallery were on, and a large guard in uniform was looking down at them, amused and a little annoyed.

"Oh. Bert. Hi." Severus extricated himself from the embrace and stood up. He reached down to help Hermione up, then put an arm around her. "Hermione? Meet Bert, the night watchman."

Hermione waved at Bert a little self-consciously, then looked around. In front of them was the reception area, now cleared up and showing no signs of the previous night's party. Only her coat, draped over a chair on the far side of the area told Hermione that it was the same place.

"Lovely to meet you, Bert. I'm afraid we got locked in by accident."

"Right." Bert's expression was dubious, and Severus pushed Hermione to go and get her coat while he engaged Bert in serious conversation about the local cricket competition. By the time she got back, the two men were laughing together and arguing about Bradman's best match.

"Severus?" Hermione came up beside him, suddenly very cold and tired.

"Yes. We should go, dear." Severus wrapped his arm around her shoulders and shook hands goodnight with Bert. "I'll drive you home. And tomorrow, or later today, we should have lunch."

"Definitely." Hermione snuggled into his embrace, then looked up at him. "And at some stage I need to meet Auntie Cass."

"You know she's dead?"

"Yes. And I'll take her flowers."

They smiled at each other as they left the gallery, as last stars faded out above them. The last, a constellation shaped like a W, seemed to remain longer than the others. But the two lovers were aware of little more than their own patch of light in the world.


End file.
